Sunday Masquerade: Redux
by lyrically
Summary: It's only sex. This is what they keep telling themselves. // Draco&Hermione with ref. to R


**Sunday Masquerade  
_Redux_**

_--_

**i. je suis solitaire**

_Monday_.

Every night is the same, as if they were born to make ceaseless patterns, etched into rhythms.

Before the sun rises, she struggles upright and clutches at the blankets around her torso, sometimes shivering even when the weather is too warm for covers. Cast in silver moonlight with metallic skin, she blinks once or twice and stares through the wall, as if her answers are just beyond the granite bricks. She is forever unaware that his sleep is disturbed at the slightest movement – that he remains awake for as long as he can with her. He commits the outline of her figure to memory, pretending to catch her silhouette in his upturned palm as if she were to fall into him. _Une étoile filante_. Her face is perfectly shaped, body gracefully curved and willowy, not beautiful but simple and pretty.

He watches her stare at the wall for minutes, maybe hours. They have an unusual arrangement and, despite her willingness – their obscene exchanges – he can sense the regret, the guilt, and the booming trepidation of her heartbeats.

But in true fashion, he doesn't care.

Can't.

It's only sex.

**ii. je suis faible**

_Tuesday_.

She stares blankly at her food, her posture uncharacteristically hunched over, as if something unbearable is sitting on her shoulders. She tunes out the conversations all around her, except one.

He leans in close to Parkinson, their elbows touching (_too close, too close_ and her breath quickens, and she quivers in nervousness, anxiety, possibly-maybe-perhaps envy). His hair is falling into his face, and she gently sweeps them away with soft fingertips as he regales her of his summer of grandeur at the _French Riviera_ (and he enunciates this carefully and loudly), describing in vivid detail the beauty of the sunset-streaked waters, and how it would be _just lovely_ if she could accompany him on his next vacation to France.

_Paris, peut-être_? he suggests with a smirk.

Helplessly, she watches the other girl gasp, squeal, and cling to his arm and kisses his cheek in excited gratitude. She shakes her head, knowing quite well that Malfoy has never stepped foot in _France_ nor does he have any intention to in the future.

He charms, embellishes the truth – a man of _gloire méprise_. He attracts his audience with false stories that seem too grand but grand enough for the believers. In the eyes of others, he is king.

She looks up when Ron addresses her, worry etched into his features. _You should eat_, he says with his mouth full of food. She restrains herself from grimacing and instead catches the look _he_ gives her over his shoulder, nodding at the rosewood doors of the Great Hall. She reluctantly stands and pushes her plate toward her friends.

_I'm not hungry_, she says. _I'm going to the library to study_.

Everyone believes her and some ignore her. As they see it, she is _Hermione_, and she is the epitome of predictability. The conversations that resume overshadow the flash of blond that follows her.

**ii.i et je suis puissant**

He holds her against him, her face between his hands, as he bends down for a bruising kiss. He licks the outline of her lips, traces it down to her neck and sucks at the crook just there, and she shudders in his hold. She slips and clutches at his robe to keep her balance, and he wraps one arm around her waist and runs his hand through her hair and pulls her closer. She is better angled for him like this, and he is aware of nothing and no one else but her.

Her hands are moving to untuck his shirt, and his fingers are quick to unbutton the latch of her skirt. They're too frantic, consumed by what little time they have together in search for release. He shoves her hard against the wall and turns her around, bunches her skirt at her waist and pulls her knickers aside, and thrusts into her. Hip to hip, and she muffles a scream into his hand. He moves back and pushes forward, more forceful than the last, and bites at her shoulder, and he momentarily forgets about restraint. Growls and slips his fingers between her thighs, finding purpose, and allows her two seconds of vocal expression, just enough to send him over the edge.

When she cries out, he leans against her and licks at the marks he's left for her.

It suits her.

**iii. mais personne ne sait**

_Wednesday._

He has his back to her when she shifts around the bed, and he keeps his eyes closed because he's satiated and too tired to care what happens. She's an open book, anyway. She'll stare at the wall forever, deciding whether to leave and will ultimately stay. But he is surprised when the space beside him sinks beneath her delicate weight, and he can feel her hovering above him and pushing strands of hair away from his face. He feels his face contorting into some vague expression, something resembling pain and confusion, but it's too dark in his room for her to see.

_I can't keep up, you know. We can't be like this. _She _loves you, perhaps more than I can_.

She rests her forehead on his arm before retreating, pulling on her wrinkled uniform, and leaving him alone for the rest of the night.

There's a sudden draft in the space where she should have been.

**iv. je veux sentir**

_Thursday_.

A game of Quidditch is starting, with players rounded up by their respective captains, and students milling around the school before filing into their proper seating. He finds himself standing in the courtyard, waiting for her, despite knowing the impossibility of such an occurrence. But she's lucky to have around.

_Elle est chanceuse_. Lucky, lucky, lucky. _Tréfle à quatre feuilles._ It takes some convincing that that is all she is to him – to justify his being here.

He scowls, unaware of the shadow creeping up from behind him. He reacts slowly to the hand that shyly slips itself into his left one, responds too late at the gentle squeeze of his hand, and taken aback at the kiss placed on his knuckles. Granger is dressed warmly today, scarf wrapped snugly around her neck, face flushed with her hair tied in a fancy ribbon.

_Good luck, Malfoy_.

He blinks down at her, stunned. She smiles up at him and stands on her tiptoes, kissing him on the cheek for extra measure and disappears in the throng of students that surround them. And for one brief second, he is uncertain whether he's still sleeping or awake because she's nowhere to be seen.

Hours later, after the game has ended, he stands proudly amidst his Slytherin peers. He tells his story of how he caught that Snitch with his left hand – _don't forget!_ he insists.

As they talk over one another, he looks over their heads in search of a familiar silhouette and is disappointed to see she isn't alone. All he hears is background noise – easily ignored – focusing intently on the scene laid before him. Weasel is tired, leaning back against a pillar with Granger dusting off his uniform and lightly touching his fingers with her own. _You and Harry will win next time_, she assures, and leaves a chaste kiss on the corner of his lips. Weasel pulls her in for a tight embrace and kisses her forehead in return with a bright grin on his face, directing her away from the crowd with Potter and She-Weasel trailing behind them.

His anger momentarily subsides when she looks over her shoulder and briefly catches his gaze. She frowns and returns her attention to something – something potentially stupid – the Weasel has to say. Laughs, the sound like silver trinkets jangling against each other. It bothers him.

She never smiles like that with him.

**v. mais vous m'avez oubli**

_Friday_.

She struggles to get out of bed, feeling a little too sore. He had been harsh with her the previous night, grazing his teeth along her sensitive skin and pulling her hair, paying no heed to her pleas for him to stop. _I won, _I _won_, he had said over and over again, and she's not sure what to think of him anymore. Between the two of them, someone had crossed a line and she isn't sure who took the first step.

She breathes in and exhales. It hurts. She crawls away from him when an arm snakes around her chest and pulls her closer to his frame. It's warm here.

_Stay with me tonight._

She bites her lip and shakes her head slowly, removing herself from his grasp.

_We ... had an arrangement. I can't – the implications ..._

He glares at her. Despite her logical conclusions, it's impossible to stand the sight of her anymore. Always right, always right – never wrong. He reaches over the edge of the bed and picks up a few garments, tossing it at her.

_Go, I don't need you here_.

When he hears the soft click of his door shutting close, he exhales loudly.

She was wrong tonight.

**vi. brûler ce masque**

_Saturday_.

He glares at the moon until he sees stars in his eyes. It's brighter than ever tonight, and she's leaving before they've even started. But it doesn't matter because he thinks he was never up to it since last night. There's a weight in his chest – unfamiliar, unsettling. Annoying.

He tenses when he feels her lips on his shoulder, when she tells him _good night_ with a certain finality that makes his spine curl. For her to make the deciding factors of their relationship – unforgivable. He feels her pull the blankets over him, even though he knows that _she knows_ he hates being fully covered.

_I feel imprisoned_, he had once said to her at the start of all this.

_In bedsheets?_

_I'm claustrophobic._

_Should I be even near you?_

_Yes. Always._

But it doesn't matter because it seems colder tonight.

**vii. pour j'ai aucun**

_Sunday_.

This has to end, and she makes it a point to visit him tonight. She has her words rehearsed, that her part of the deal is finished, and their one-week trial period has made her realise that this isn't what she wants. _There are other girls who would love this_, she plans to say to him.

Taking a deep breath, she knocks on his door. The sight of him when he opens it for her is one to behold. His shirt is undone and his trousers unbuttoned. His smile is faint and mocking, as if he doesn't know what to make of the state of their situation. They've come at a standstill, a dead end. He leans his head against the doorframe.

_What do you want, Granger?_

She hesitates, curses to herself when she forgets what she wants to say, what she's meant to say.

_I – I don't know. Do you need me toni–_

_No_, he interrupts softly. _I don't need you._

Her heart catches. Stops. She reminds herself she still has air to breathe, but she holds her breath when he strokes her cheek with his knuckles, still smiling. There's nothing warm or cold about it. It just is, and she isn't sure what to make of it.

_I have a replacement_. _You can go back now._

He begins to shut the door, and her reflexes get the best of her when she holds her arms out to stop him. He tilts his head, and she thinks he knows what she's going to say. He knows everything.

_What do you _want_, Granger? _he repeats.

_One – one more week._

He looks at her expectantly.

_... please._

For every game, there's a victor, and he wins every single time. Kings always do.

_Good answer_.

* * *

**end**

_Has it really been four years since the original script? Yes! And trust me, I have been longing to rewrite this, and now I have. I, personally, enjoy the new one better, especially with the various differences in contrast to the original. I'm honestly surprised that the first still receives traffic, all things considered. Anyway, the point of this note is to address the following:_

_- **Is there a French version?**  
No, sorry. And this is one story I won't have translated, if only for the fact that it would detract from the isolated phrases already. It's an honour in and of itself, though, and I'm grateful for the offers. It has, however, been translated in other languages with the request that said phrases be left as it were. See Lady Narcissa7's profile for a Portuguese version. _

_- **Will there be a prequel?**  
No. When I first wrote this, I kept in mind the fact that I was making fun of the hundreds of stories that follow a similar format, except that I was also very serious about what I was writing. Essentially, the backstory is up to the reader, and I see no purpose in it._

_- **Will there be a sequel?**  
At this point in time, yes. I'm not making any promises because I'm positively horrible at them, just that the possibility at this moment is very high. This explains the alternate ending of this version._


End file.
